


Pressure

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Simon ponders his light.
Relationships: Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The enormous gilded portrait, painted almost entirely in shades of blue and swathes of black, is a powerful force even shrunken down for the surface of a tablet. Simon isn’t programmed to _feel_ and still doesn’t respond to most things a human would find _moving_ , but he thinks he’s slowly beginning to understand the art of Carl Manfred. The painting is relatively new, and it shows in the perfected style, the incredibly detailed brushstrokes and the proportions themselves—all building on the crude remnants of Carl’s first published sketches. Simon stares at the canvas for a good four-point-seven-nine minutes before swiping to the next. A thin paragraph sprawls out beneath the three-dimensional giraffe, summarizing the remarks Carl made when the statue was first revealed. The magazine collection is far from comprehensive, but it’s enough to whet Simon’s appetite. If he wants more, he can always delve into Markus’ memories—press his naked hand to Markus’ palm and dive into the warm consciousness of his lover; he knows Markus would sweetly share every little detail. Perhaps he’ll ask when Markus comes home.

The front door of their apartment swings open, registering in Simon’s audio processors despite the long hallway between. Marcus walks into the living room as though summoned by Simon’s thoughts. A reusable cloth bag of spare supplies hangs from his arm—he sets it on the end table as he strolls around the couch. Simon automatically lowers the tablet, because as alluring as Carl’s work is, nothing compares to _Markus._

Markus takes a seat next to him, right on the same cushion, close enough that Simon has to shift his weight to make room. Their hips touch, shoulders brushing as Markus turns to drape his arm across the back. His eyes skim across the screen. Just like Simon, he can scan and instantly download every pixel. But there’s something strangely scintillating about reading _in real life_ , instead of inside the digitized landscape of their minds. 

Markus doesn’t ask, just comments, “I always liked that statue.”

 _Always_. Because Simon doesn’t believe there was ever a time Markus _wasn’t_ alive—he could always feel, think, just to varying degrees. He’s _special_. With the LED missing from his temple, he could pass so easily for a human, except for one small thing—he’s much too handsome to be borne of random design. His eyes flicker blue and green and capture Simon completely. 

Simon agrees, “His work does tend to elicit an emotional response.” Exactly what he was hoping for. He leans forward to slip the tablet onto the coffee table, so that when he settles back against Markus’ arm and tucks into Markus’ shoulder, there’s no need to worry about crushing glass between them. 

It’s not that Simon is deliberately chasing emotions. He knows he’s nowhere near as advanced as Markus, but he’ll never be—he just finds Markus’ ability to be so dynamic exhilarating. Maybe a small part of that is perception. It’s not just the lack of LED; Markus is _unique._ That’s something Simon can’t emulate. But he does wonder aloud, “Should I remove my LED?”

Markus quirks one brow. He leans a little closer, though there’s no room—his jacket wrinkles against Simon’s shirt, pressing in just enough for Simon to feel the weight against his plating. It draws his eyes down to where the raised seams of Markus’ jeans dig into his outer thigh. Markus’ mouth is so perilously near to Simon’s cheek that if they had breath to exhale, Simon would feel it. 

“You don’t have to blend in now,” Markus muses. Fingers curl beneath Simon’s chin, peeling back so that pure, _raw_ silicone connects with his flesh. If Simon had nerves, he’d shiver. He lets Markus turn him. His face is tilted aside, and Markus’ lips brush across the flashing light on Simon’s forehead. The touch is feather-soft but still sends Simon’s sensors into overdrive. 

The manufactured gland in his oral cavity starts producing liquid without any executive order. It’s not the first time Markus’ touch has sparked Simon’s systems to life. He swallows and mumbles, “Does that mean I shouldn’t...?” He has no personal preference. Maybe Markus would find him more intriguing if he didn’t literally wear his frequently-stressed systems on his proverbial sleeve. He’d rip his own thirium pump out of his chest for Markus. 

Markus doesn’t answer, maybe because his mouth is full—he’s opened it wide around Simon’s jaw and is scraping his way down. He nips at Simon’s throat and licks over the shallow bruise he made—one Simon won’t heal over, even though he could. When Markus gets like this, Simon wears the marks for _days_. He closes his eyes as Markus covers him in the scrape of blunt teeth and greedy kisses, getting steadily closer to his mouth. 

Then Markus’ tongue is sliding across his lips, and Simon opens wide with a needy moan—protocols kick in that his old master clumsily installed and never properly utilized. The reactions Simon gave then were so stilted and meaningless. But Markus excels all those algorithms so far beyond their core programming that they have to rewrite themselves, take up twice the terabytes with ever-expanding responses, because Markus invents new ways to touch him every day and Simon’s vulnerable to all of them. Simon arches into Markus, voice box crackling as Markus’ tongue brushes an exposed wire. Markus’ bare hand caresses the side of his face and holds him in, as though Simon would ever dare leave. 

Simon is thoroughly entranced. It would take Elijah Kamski himself to erase Markus from Simon’s system. In these moments, Simon’s so _overwhelmed._

But he’s still an android. His memory is a separate cluster, largely unaffected. When Markus diverts to sucking on his neck, Simon dazedly repeats, “Should I remove my LED...?”

“I’m demonstrating why you shouldn’t.” Markus’ other hand drops down to Simon’s waist and toys with his belt. Simon tries to free up at least one block of active processing to determine what Markus means. He doesn’t understand how this could expose new data on CyberLife installments. 

Maybe Markus sees that failed examination in Simon’s dilating eyes, because he all but growls, “I like seeing it whirr out of control when I overload you. It’s so easy to undo you, and I love analyzing every part of that process, but I especially love _seeing_ the exact moment you go from yellow to red.”

Simon doesn’t know if he’s red now. His internal temperature has spiked inexplicably, every last one of his sexual programs up and running at full power. He knows he hasn’t been blue since Markus walked through the door. Of all the things Simon’s been through, Markus is the biggest tax on his systems. 

Markus is his _world_ , and he’ll happily keep his LED to serve Markus’ odd kink. He promises, “I’ll leave it.”

Markus smiles. He fills Simon’s mouth again, one hand in Simon’s hair and the other finally sliding beneath Simon’s pants and boxers to trace his synthetic skin. 

Simon arcs up and kisses Markus _hard_ , flashing straight to scarlet.


End file.
